


battle hard, play hard

by Crimson_Voltaire



Series: Kinktober 2017 [8]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Original Percival Graves, Dirty Talk, Dueling, Kinktober, Kinktober 2017, M/M, Mentioned Object Insertion, Play Dueling, Play Fighting, Teasing, Top Newt Scamander, Wandplay, slight roleplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-10
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2019-01-15 17:27:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12325539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crimson_Voltaire/pseuds/Crimson_Voltaire
Summary: “Do you duel, Mr. Scamander?”There’s a tease in Mr. Graves’ voice, hidden under gravel and wit, a tease and a challenge. Newt straightens, dusting off his hands. Graves levels him with a look, head cocking to the side ever so slightly, causing the sun to reflect off his neat, glossy hair. It shines the deepest black and Newt longs to run his hands through it.





	battle hard, play hard

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, friends! The original prompt was gunplay, but that wasn't working for me. Bluebeholder came up with the idea of wandplay, so kudos and credit to her for this idea!

**October 10th – Wand play**  
  
“Do you duel, Mr. Scamander?”  
  
There’s a tease in Mr. Graves’ voice, hidden under gravel and wit, a tease and a challenge. Newt straightens, dusting off his hands. He’s investigating mites in the Graves’ Estate’s sprawling gardens and vegetable patch, looking for anything that might cause those interesting marks on leaves.   
  
Graves levels him with a _look_ , head cocking to the side ever so slightly, causing the sun to reflect off his neat, glossy hair. It shines the deepest black and Newt longs to run his hands through it.   
  
“Not for sport,” Newt replies, shrugging a little helplessly. When he looks, there is dirt under his nails. He tries to remove it, feeling very much like a naughty school boy caught playing in the muck, “Why do you ask?”  
  
“Your brother was telling me you’re a skilled duelist,” Graves murmurs, shoving his hands in his pockets, as if Newt’s movements have made him aware of his own. Newt cocks his head now, “Where _is_ my brother?”  
  
“Off with the hunting party.”  
  
Newt purses his lips, eyes flickering to the woodland beyond the boundaries of the gardens. It’s ancient forest, older than the house or the gardens or either of them, as old as the hills. It’s ancient forest – full of wonders and unspeakable evils. One treads carefully in the forests around the Graves’ estate, one doesn’t dare go alone. Only the foolhardy dare to go without a Graves’ to guide them. And yet the Graves is standing in front of Newt, and not with the roaring bunch of morons probably disturbing the wildlife on horseback.   
  
“You didn’t go with them?”  
  
Graves chuckles, shrugging and shaking his head, “No. There are far more interesting things to be seen on the estate.”  
  
Many a time, Newt has been caught in the gaze of a predator. He gets that feeling right now, staring down Graves. The man’s eyes are dark and liquid, the centers radiating outwards, threatening to swallow up his entire eye. If Newt were to catch him out of his periphery, he’d see a Wraith – impossibly pale, sharp ears and jaw and wicked teeth. Beautiful and dangerous. As he is now, in front of Graves, he sees a man with ancestry more than human, a man who wants to _play_.   
  
Newt’s wand slips from his sleeve into his palm. He grips it tightly, taking a deep breath and readies himself. Graves grins, sharp and a little feral. He assumes proper stance – probably learned while in school, and waits.   
  
_So this is how it’s going to be?_ Newt thinks. He doesn’t want to strike first, but he knows the Director and he knows how he plays. Newt lurches forward and then goes left, firing off a crackle of blue light. Graves deflects it with a flick of his hand. His boot digs into the soft earth as he spins on his heel to track Newt, eyes locked onto prey. Already, white-purple energy crackles around his hand, flickering up over that monster of a wand like a threat. Newt knows he’s going to have to make it difficult. Moving targets are harder to hit, even for Graves. So he disapperates.   
  
He reappears behind Graves, pointing a particularly nasty hex right at the center of the man’s back. To his surprise, it rebounds and he barely has time to get out of the way.   
  
“Clever,” Graves growls, turning around again. He moves like lightning, flinging himself at Newt. The magizoologist squeaks and closes his eyes, feeling the pull and twist of apparition before he spits himself back out a few feet away, just in time to see Graves go sprawling and rolling through the tomato plants. Newt grants himself a millisecond of pride before a sweeping disk of white comes arcing at him.   
  
“Merlin’s beard, Graves!” Newt roars, throwing up a protective shield, “Are you trying to decapitate me?”  
  
Graves grins, picking himself up and shaking the dirt from his clothes. They’re both panting a little, adrenaline buzzing through their veins. Newt grits his teeth and assesses his options. He isn’t expecting Graves to bolt, running straight at him. With a squeak, Newt tries to disapparate again, only to feel a hand wrap around his wrist before he fully completes the spell.   
  
“Oof!”  
  
Two bodies go rolling across the lawn just in front of the manor. Newt has the wind driven from him by an accidental elbow, and he lies there on the grass gasping for a moment. The sun shines down so nicely, a gentle breeze against his face. Beside him, Graves groans softly, rolling over.  
  
“You absolute arse,” Newt growls, “You could have been killed! I expect that sort of recklessness from my brother, not from yo-mmf!”  
  
Graves’s lips are warm and dry and soft against Newt’s, his tongue licking into Newt’s mouth with barely a request for entry. Newt’s fingers tangle in the man’s waistcoat, gripping the fine material tight, keeping Graves close. Graves sighs and groans when Newt nips at his lower lip, drawing the flesh between his teeth to worry it.   
  
“You’re an arse,” Newt repeats. Graves, now straddling his lap, is a disheveled mess, hair falling into his eyes, chest heaving and smeared with dirt.   
  
“If you wanted a fucking, all you had to do was ask.”  
  
Graves moans. His hips come down against Newt’s groin, the swell of his ass hot and promising against Newt’s quickly thickening cock. Little sparks wash over Newt – teasing at what is to come.   
  
“It’s no fun, asking,” Graves murmurs. He twists his hands in Newt’s collar, yanking open the fabric so the buttons pop off. Newt just rolls his eyes, waving his hand and finding the fastenings on Graves’ trousers.   
  
“You wanted me to force you, hmm? Why didn’t you let me best you then, darling? Let me put you on all fours and fuck you into submission? Or is that no fun either? I know how you like to win.”  
  
As he speaks, Newt rips Percival’s trousers down powerful thighs, letting the sun warm the glorious, pale globes of the man’s ass. His cock springs free, eager and flushed and already wet at the tip. Newt curls one hand around it, the other ghosting over skin to press between cheeks. Graves’ hole is wide and wanting, slick enough for Newt to press two fingers inside. He raises a brow, massaging the velvety heat.   
  
“Did you really prep yourself and then come out here to play fight? Percival, you utter _whore_.”  
  
Graves’ laugh starts out as a laugh, but devolves into a moan when Newt’s hand twists viciously around the head of his cock and the clever fingers inside him catch that spot.

“Don’t tease,” he hisses, “’m ready, just fuck me.”  
  
Newt hisses back, hand and fingers stilling. Graves growls and whines, gyrating his hips backwards to fuck himself on Newt’s hand. It’s enough to make one’s head spin – naught five minutes ago, they were dueling, and now the Director is coaxing Newt into taking him on the lawn in front of his ancestral home. But Newt is good at going with unexpected twists and turns. Getting his feet under his knees, Newt throws himself upright and unbalances Percival. Graves yelps as they roll, the sky spinning, and then finds himself pinned against the soft grass with Newt at his back.   
  
The magizoologist hums and noses along that neat hairline before biting at Percival’s earlobe.   
“Whores don’t get to make demands,” he croons and hikes Percival’s hips high, until his ass is in the air in prefect display, “Whores take what is given to them. Especially ones who think they can come out here and disturb my research by dueling.”  
  
Newt lines the head of his cock up with Graves fluttering hole, feels the muscle clench around him, as if trying to guide him inside. The hand not steadying Graves’ hips slips over narrow flanks to splay across the man’s chest, reaching inside that expensive shirt to pluck pert nipples. Percival whimpers, pressing back into Newt, urging him deeper. When he bottoms out, Newt stills, letting the Director quiver and pant beneath him.   
  
“Newt,” Graves whines, “Move. S’not _fair_.”  
  
“Oh, it isn’t fair is it? You weren’t very fair, teasing me earlier. I’m afraid your actions are coming back to you, darling.”  
  
But even as he teases, Newt gives in to Percival’s demands, digging his fingers into those thin hips, feeling the muscle and bone, and then surges forward. Thrust after brutal thrust, until Percival is a stream of noise and clawing at the ground beneath him. The air fills with his cries and the slap, slap, slap of skin on skin. Newt can just imagine the beautiful shade of pink those cheeks are turning – he longs to bite and suck and leave them purple.   
  
“That’s it, darling,” he whispers, arching forward so he can speak in Percival’s ear, “I wonder if the hunt can hear you. Maybe they’ll come back, watch their feared leader be fucked into the ground.”  
  
Percival twists his head, until Newt’s mouth is moving over the corner of his own, practically begging for a kiss. It sends a thrill through Newt, to have such a powerful figure underneath him like this, pleading for his affection. He leaves a chaste kiss on Graves’ lips before sucking back, palm against Graves’ shoulder blades and pushes Graves’ chest into the ground. Graves wails, as Newt hits his prostate over and over again, cock filling him to the brim. He clenches and jerks around the Brit, fists curling in the grass.   
  
“Newt! Newt! Oh – oh – _oh Merlin_ … Newt!”  
  
Newt’s orgasm tears from him unexpectedly, when he glances up and finds their reflection in the glass of the library windows. He snarls, pressing into Percival one more time and spilling deep inside him. Percival cries out, hole clenching down, and goes still like a statue. His own cock hangs thick and heavy and forgotten between his legs, dripping onto the green of the grass.   
  
When the magizoologist pulls away, Graves moans, trying to follow. Newt smacks him on the ass for it, and then pinches one cheek.   
  
“Enough. Up.”  
  
He guides Percival until he’s on his knees, back to Newt’s chest. Newt wraps a hand around the man’s prick, thumb dragging across the weeping, purple head. As he begins to pump, using the man’s own pre-spend as lubricant, Newt leaves little bites and kisses across Percival’s throat. Their gazes lock in the reflection off the glass, some rendition of the way they had earlier. The hunger in Percival’s has faded into pure bliss, those dark eyes hazy with lust and pleasure. Little pants leave him now, constant cries of “agh, agh, agh”. Occasionally, he cries out Newt’s name.   
  
“Look at yourself, best duelist in America, hmm? Most powerful wizard? Brought low by a magizoologist and a foreigner at that? What would they say, if they could say, if they could see you like this? Fucking into my hand.”  
  
“ _Newt_.”  
  
“Sometimes, I think about fucking you with my wand. You’d-“  
  
Graves comes with a cry, hot and thick. He jerks in Newt’s arms, muscles seizing. Newt gets to watch the way his mouth stretches wide around the sound, the way those eyes clench shut and his brows furrow. Like he’s in pain. It’s glorious, absolutely beautiful. Then Graves goes limp like a rag doll. Newt has to catch him before he smashes his face off the ground.   
  
“Easy, easy, darling.”  
  
Newt lays him down and scrambles for his wand. It’s a few feet away from them, where it fell when they initially rolled across the grass. He cleans both of them up with a flick of it, righting their clothing before hauling Percival back up into his arms. Graves nuzzles his forehead against Newt’s throat, now much more like a domestic housecat than a jaguar looking for a meal.   
  
“Well, that was certainly something,” Newt says, dragging his hands through Percival’s hair. The man hums, eyelashes fluttering against Newt’s skin.   
  
“But in all seriousness, where are my brother and the rest of them?”  
  
“Hunting, like I told you.”  
  
“Alone? Are they still alive?”  
  
“My grandmother is with them.”  
“Darling, your grandmother may _be_ the reason they aren’t alive. Come on now, up you come. We should find them before they get themselves into too much trouble.”  
  
Graves groans again, but lets Newt coax him upright and drag him out into the forest. It’s dangerous to go without a Graves, after all.   
  


**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism welcomed! Please leave your thoughts!


End file.
